“Quelle porte?” asked Gaspard, pointing southward.
“St. Pierre.”
“St. Pierre!” cried Gaspard. “O mon Dieu, St. Pierre—St. Pierre Martinique?”
The mate nodded.
For a moment Gaspard could not believe that such luck was his. Out of thirty or forty possible ports she was bound for St. Pierre, for Marie. Then he laughed and clapped his knees with his hands; the oarsmen laughed half mockingly, poking fun at him in American slang, but the mate did not laugh, he was a man who, to use his own expression, had no use for laughter, besides, his eyes and his mind were otherwise engaged.
Gaspard, in his excitement over lighting the signal fire and the approach of the boat, had forgotten one thing. He was wearing the diamond ring he had taken from Sagesse, a terrible blunder, almost unbelievable, did not one know the capacity of the human mind for error.
The mate, he was first officer of the Anne Martin and his name was Skinner—though he could scarcely keep his eyes from the flashing jewel, said nothing, and now the boat was under the port quarter of the Anne Martin, oars were in and Gaspard climbing the ladder which had been flung down, whilst a hard-faced man in a panama, Captain Stock, no less, the master of the vessel, was leaning over the side shouting directions to the mate.
In a moment the crew were on board, the boat swung up at the davits, the braces manned and the Anne Martin on her course again.
Then, and not till then, did Captain Stock turn to the new-comer.
“He’s French,” said Skinner, “wrecked over there, but he’s got a diamond on his finger worth ten thousand dollars that wants explaining.”